


Mistel

by splix



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Christmas, Gen, M/M, Poverty, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5495774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splix/pseuds/splix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin's not that big on Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistel

**Author's Note:**

> Grateful thanks, as ever, to kimberlite and vilestrumpet for beta and britpick.

"What _is_ that?" Peevishly, Martin hit the satcom. "Fitton Tower, Golf Tango India with you on the localiser two six right."

"Golf Tango India, roger, cleared to land two six right."

"Cleared to land two six right, Golf Tango India. Thank you, Carl." Martin shook his head. "Honestly, I swear this time it's –"

"Melting chocolate," Douglas said, sniffing judiciously at the air. "Before that I think it was crabmeat, and I definitely detected browning butter and Gruyere. Very nice."

"I don't think passengers should be allowed in the galley," Martin said.

"These are great chums of Carolyn's, and she insisted that they be given every consideration. Now, if that means they want to slightly irradiate what smells like very nice food in the world's dodgiest microwave just to warm it up, then I don't see why we should stop them."

Martin's stomach rumbled uncomfortably. He cleared his throat, hoping Douglas hadn't heard. "She should be here looking after them."

"On Christmas Eve? Ha! Besides, they're chums, not actually clients we’ll see more than once every few years."

"I suppose so. And I reckon she couldn't leave Arthur unsupervised whilst he was cooking Christmas Eve dinner."

Douglas snorted. "Arthur shouldn't be unsupervised whilst taking a ten-metre stroll." He picked up the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're now making our final approach into Fitton, so please do put your seat backs and tray tables into an upright position, hang on to your champagne glasses, and be sure to remember to extinguish your pudding."

Martin hit the mute button. "How do you – have they lit up a pudding? Can you smell it? I've got to –"

"It's a joke, Martin. Relax." Douglas hit the intercom again. "On behalf of MJN Air, we'd like to thank you for choosing us as your airline, and wish you good tidings of comfort and joy and a _very_ happy Christmas." He clicked the intercom off decisively. "Right. What have you got on tonight?"

"Don't know." Martin shrugged. "Bit of telly, I suppose, something to eat." The students in the house had scattered for the holiday, leaving Martin on his own. Just as well; he didn't fancy anybody throwing him pitying looks on the way in or out of their festive carousing. With luck, someone would have left behind something to eat. He hadn't a job lined up until after the New Year, and he was utterly skint. The aromas from the cabin were nigh-on unbearable, much worse than the knowledge that unauthorised persons were rooting round in the galley. His stomach made another plaintive noise. "What about you? Seeing your daughter?"

"Oh, no. Marjorie's got her for the week – visiting her awful parents in Plymouth. I'll have her all next week, though. Tonight I've been invited to a rather lavish party, as it happens – in fact," Douglas said, looking at his watch, "it's starting in about ten minutes."

"I suppose that means you'll want me to hoover as you're swanning off to wherever it is," Martin grumbled.

"Well –"

"No, that's fine. Fine. I haven't got anything better to do."

"Thanks awfully," Douglas said. "I'll make it up to you."

"Really? How?"

Douglas gave him a funny look. "What would you like?"

"Oh, never mind," Martin sighed. "You know, post-flight checks are just as important as pre-flight checks, Douglas. The best time to realise that an aeroplane needs attention is during the low-stress post-flight check."

"Low stress being relative, of course. You're forgetting the time you set the fire extinguisher off and sent both yourself and Arthur to hospital during a post-flight check."

"Oh, shut up," Martin muttered. His stomach muttered back.

 

*

 

There had been five of Carolyn's chums on the flight from Nice to Fitton, and yet the cabin looked as if it had just harboured a drunken bash for two hundred. Sighing, Martin picked up rubbish, emptied glasses, tidied, sorted, and hoovered, his stomach now gurgling nonstop. He paused over a half-eaten canape (the only one; apparently the food had been so good that nothing had been left behind) and regretfully threw it into the bin bag. He wasn't that desperate, not yet; besides, there had to be _something_ back at the house, a tin of soup, some bread or pasta that he could replace after his next removal job. He hadn't even picked up a sandwich in Nice – food was so expensive there. Some shops might still be open – he had two quid in his pocket, and that would buy a box of pasta and some tinned sauce. There might even be cheese in the fridge at home.

On his final appraisal of the flight deck, Martin noticed Douglas' scarf crumpled on the floor. Exasperated, he snatched it up, half-tempted to throw it in the bin. Someone had spilled red wine on one of the seats, and he'd spent a quarter of an hour scrubbing at it and it _still_ looked like a crime scene. He was sure Carolyn would find a way to blame him for that. Grudgingly, he wound the scarf round his own neck – at least it smelled nice, like Douglas' expensive cologne – hefted the bin bags, and left GERTI after one last anxious look round.

 

*

 

The van made a funny sputtering noise as Martin pulled up to Douglas' house. He closed his eyes and sent up a little prayer. The transmission was elderly and probably on its way to being knackered, but if he could coast through until mid-January, please God, he'd be able to pay for it. Two jobs would probably do it, but if he didn't have a working van, he couldn't do the jobs.

He switched off the ignition and trotted up the walk, noting that Douglas' front room light was on and his car was in the drive. Coloured lights glowed prettily round the windows. Martin frowned as he rang the bell. _Thought he had a party to go to._

The door opened to reveal Douglas in a jumper and trousers that, while smarter than most of Martin's wardrobe, were decidedly beneath Douglas' standards for festive attire. Douglas' eyes widened. "Martin. What are you doing here?"

Martin put his hands on his hips. "Party, my left foot. You just wanted to get out of the hoovering!"

"Not exactly," Douglas said.

"Oh, really. I suppose the party got cancelled at the last minute. I was born at night, but not _last_ night, Douglas."

"Have it your way," Douglas said, flushing a bit – or maybe that was the glow of the Christmas lights. "Was there something you wanted?"

"Yes," Martin said stiffly, producing Douglas' scarf from his pocket. "You left this on the flight deck. I thought I'd just drape it over the post box and you'd see it when you got home."

"Ah." Douglas took the scarf. "I wondered where that had got to."

"Not that you needed it, not actually having to go out in the cold." Martin glared at Douglas. This was the last, the absolute last time he was gracefully volunteering for hoovering. Douglas could do the bloody hoovering whilst Martin did the important post-flight checks. It wasn't as if Douglas was the captain, anyhow.

"Thank you, Martin," Douglas said. "Good of you to bring it by."

"Hmph. Merry Christmas." Martin wheeled and stalked back to the van. He climbed inside and turned the ignition.

_Clunk._

"Oh, no…." He turned it again.

_Clunk. Wheeze._

"Oh, for goodness' sake. Come on, come _on_ …." He tried again.

_Sssssssssssss._

Martin wanted to cry. "Bugger." He laid his head on the steering wheel.

After ten more tries with nothing but silence in response to his pleas and cursing, Martin climbed out of the van and slunk back up Douglas' walk. He rang the bell and waited.

An aromatic waft of delicious-smelling cooking accompanied Douglas as he opened the door. "Thought you'd gone."

Martin swallowed. "Douglas, I need a favour."

 

*

 

"I'm sure it's nothing serious," Douglas said, negotiating the car over an icy patch of road.

Martin slumped disconsolately in the passenger seat. "I think it's the transmission, but I won't know until I can get in there tomorrow. Sorry I have to leave it."

"I have a towing service. I can get it to a garage if you like."

"No," Martin said hastily. He was a mediocre mechanic at best, but if there was the slightest chance that he could fix it himself, he'd take it. "As long as you don't mind that it's there overnight."

"Well, it is an awfully desirable model," Douglas replied drily. "It's – what, '95, '96?"

"'92," Martin murmured, blushing furiously.

"Gosh. Hope it's still there when I get back home."

"You're not helping, you know." 

"Martin, you can leave it as long as you need to. Don't bother coming tomorrow – it's Christmas, for heaven's sake. Leave it until the weekend, at least."

Martin sighed. "Maybe. I don't know. Maybe I'll leave it until Boxing Day, if that's all right. It would be nice to have a day off and not think about it."

"There you are," Douglas said. "It's not as if worrying will help, you know."

"I know, but worrying is what I do best." Martin's stomach made an embarrassingly loud noise in the quiet interior of Douglas' Lexus. Martin said nothing, but felt the heat in his face rise by a few degrees. His stomach gurgled again. Martin coughed to cover it and wanted to sink into the plush seats, out of sight.

"Martin," Douglas said, "did you have lunch or dinner today?"

"Of course," Martin replied hastily. "It's just…I had a bottle of fizzy water with dinner, and it does odd things to the stomach."

"Hm. Funny, I didn't notice you eating earlier."

"I did. You must have been doing the pre-flight check. Turn right at this street," Martin said, pointing, hunching down even further and remembering belatedly that he'd done the pre-flight check himself.

 

*

 

The students had cleaned with unusual thoroughness; there was no food in the house. Nothing, that was, apart from a box of PG Tips in a cupboard and some sour milk and lemon slices in the fridge, and the walkable shops had long since closed. It wasn't the first time Martin had had to subsist on tea, but even some milk or sugar would have been nice. Martin made tea, added lemon, and went up to his room – the warmest in the house, which was horrid in summer but a blessing in winter – to curl up and sleep. On the way up the stairs, he batted in irritation at the sprig of mistletoe one of the students had suspended from the banister. They'd hung them all over the house, in fact, including the front door – a hilarious joke on Martin, the only one left in the house, the only one going nowhere and expecting no visitors at all, much less someone to kiss him beneath the sodding mistletoe.

Once in his room, Martin stripped off his polyester uniform, crawled into a ragged jumper and tracksuit bottoms, and plugged in his little strand of Christmas lights in the window before opening it just a crack. He went to the hi-fi and put on a record, _Sing with Vera_ , took his tea, turned out the overhead light, and got into bed. He watched the little lights blink on and off – pink, blue, green – and tried not to think about utter fiscal ruin. Yes, he could go to Simon or Caitlin if he absolutely had to, Mum as a last-ditch resort, but…he still had his pride.

_That and two quid will buy you a box of cheap pasta and some tinned sauce when the shops are open again._

Vera Lynn's syrup-sweet voice crackled out of the ancient speakers.

_Look for the silver lining_  
_When e'er a cloud appears in the blue._  
_Remember somewhere the sun is shining,_  
_And so the right thing to do_  
_Is make it shine for you._

"Oh, God." Martin set the cooling tea on the floor and pulled the pillow over his head.

The front bell rang once, twice. Martin removed the pillow and scrambled out of bed to the window. The attic was a perfect vantage place for spotting visitors, not that he ever had any. He squinted into the darkness and just made out a champagne-coloured car in the drive.

"Douglas?" God, no. What if the van had been stolen? He only had third party coverage. "Oh, God, oh God…." Martin nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get down the stairs. Scarcely managing to keep a moan in check, he yanked the door open. "Oh, God, Douglas – please tell me the van wasn't stolen. Please."

Douglas, bundled up warmly against the wind and bearing several carrier bags in his arms, lifted one eyebrow. "The van wasn't stolen. It's nice to see you too, Martin."

"What, then? I can't take a joke tonight, Douglas, honestly." Martin realised he was near tears. It was probably hunger making him emotional. He wished he'd eaten the leftover half canape.

"Well." Douglas harrumphed and gave a haughty sniff. "Since neither of us seem to have plans for Christmas Eve, I thought I'd bring over some nibblies and drinks." Douglas hefted one large, clinking bag. "Maybe you can grab this one – it's a bit heavy."

Automatically, Martin took the bag. "I've had dinner," he lied. His stomach made another piteous noise.

"Really," Douglas said. "Well, you can keep me company whilst I eat." He gazed patiently at Martin. "Not to rush you, Martin, but it's a bit brisk out here."

"Sorry, sorry," Martin said, and waved Douglas inside.

 

*

 

They'd taken the food up to Martin's room and made an impromptu picnic on the floor. Douglas had brought ingredients for enormous turkey sandwiches with Brie and thinly sliced apples, a Thermos of carrot-ginger soup, and even thick wedges of Christmas cake. 

Martin ate hugely of everything, drank two bottles of cider, and sprawled on his threadbare carpet, nourished and replete. "Douglas, why didn't you go to that party tonight?"

Douglas shrugged, the picture of nonchalance, but didn't quite meet Martin's eyes as he spoke. "Oh, I don't know." He slowly twirled a bottle of Coca-Cola. "To be painfully honest, most of those dos are rather couples-oriented, and given that Helena and I are on the outs at the moment –"

"I thought you were getting a divorce."

"Well, yes. I suppose I wasn't quite prepared to answer questions about why we weren't attending as a couple. People tend to expect it, you know."

"I wouldn't know," Martin muttered. He gave Douglas an envious glance, distantly amazed that Douglas would ever admit to even a sliver of insecurity about being single. It happened so rarely.

"And, I suppose I knew I was going to cancel well before I phoned at the last minute," Douglas admitted. "Sorry for leaving you with the mess."

Martin shrugged, his earlier frustration greatly diminished as a result of a happily full tummy. "It doesn't matter. Thank you for bringing dinner," he added shyly. "I was hungry."

"Oh, think nothing of it," Douglas said, and turned to the hi-fi. "Have you got any Christmas music? Nothing against Vera Lynn – gives this place a real Blitz ambience, lacking only the blackout curtains – but I think something a bit more festive is in order, don't you?"

Martin felt himself blushing again. "I've only got one Christmas record. It's a 45."

"As long as you only play it a few times." Douglas finished his Coke. "Well?"

"All right." Martin went to his stack of 45s and pulled one out. He took Vera off the turntable, popped on the spindle insert, and carefully set the disc down. He placed the stylus on the record, and the muted sound of bombs filtered through the speakers, and then a male chorus singing the first two lines of _O Tannenbaum._

Douglas cocked a brow. "Interesting…."

Snare drums took over the singing, and then a solo male voice:

_The news had come out in the First World War_  
_The bloody Red Baron was flying once more_  
_The Allied command ignored all of its men_  
_And called on Snoopy to do it again._

Douglas threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Of _course_."

"Shh," Martin scolded.

_Christmas bells, those Christmas bells_  
_Ring out from the land_  
_Asking peace of all the world_  
_And good will to man._

They finished out the song in silence. Martin lifted the stylus from the record. "Go on, laugh if you want to. I know it's not sophisticated or anything. I don't care, I love it."

Douglas' eyes twinkled, but not, Martin fancied – perhaps erroneously – in mockery. "Actually, I think it's the perfect Christmas song for you, Martin. Not a better one to be had in all of history."

"Don't tease, Douglas. It's Christmas." Martin cocked his head, then went to the window and opened it wider. The bells of nearby St. Agnes' rang, summoning worshippers to midnight services. "Do you hear?" He sighed a little. Christmas used to be such a marvellous time – feasting and laughter, sugar mice and paper crowns, no knackered vans or low-paying removal jobs or seasonal loneliness. Everyone had to grow up sometime, though.

"I do. I suppose that's my cue to leave. It's been a hell of a long day." Douglas rose with a grunt and collected the carrier bags. "You don't mind if I leave the leftovers, do you? Such a bother to carry them home, and my fridge is absolutely bursting."

Martin tried not to stare longingly at the food, aware that it would feed him for the better part of a week. "Are you sure? I mean – if you haven't got room I suppose it's all right."

"Oh, certainly." Douglas strolled downstairs, Martin following. Douglas collected his coat and scarf and opened the front door, letting in a cold breeze. He turned to Martin. "Thanks for your company tonight, Martin."

"Erm…yeah, of course. Thanks for dinner."

Douglas glanced up at the mistletoe hanging over the threshold. He caught Martin's eye and smiled, then held out his hand. "Merry Christmas."

Martin took Douglas' hand and squeezed it gently. "Merry Christmas, Douglas." He took a tentative half-step forward, holding Douglas' gaze, and stopped.

_God, you're ridiculous._

He stepped back. "See you on Thursday."

Douglas' smile dimmed a bit, then broadened again. "Right. Thursday. Good night."

Martin closed the door and remembered he'd planned to go to Douglas' house on Tuesday to see about the van. Well, never mind. His hunger had been assuaged, and all at once, the broken van didn't seem quite as disastrous as it had a few hours ago.

 

*

 

Full of turkey sandwiches, soup, and cake, Martin slept late and pottered about the attic for most of Christmas Day, reading, listening to records and the sound of a cold, sleety rain tapping against the window. He nibbled at some of the Christmas cake, phoned Mum to bid her and Simon and Caitlin a happy Christmas, and just about meant it.

Somewhere round half nine the next morning, as he was making a small sandwich for breakfast, he heard a brief tap at the door and a faint jingle. He set his food down and went to the door, seeing his spare van keys just inside on the floor, as if someone had pushed them in the postal slot.

"Douglas?" Martin opened the door. Douglas wasn't there, but his van was parked in the drive. Scowling in confusion, Martin grabbed his raincoat, slipped into his shoes, and went out to the van. He got in, put the key in the ignition, and turned it. The van started with a low purr and idled smoothly.

Martin shook his head. "Douglas…."

A piece of folded paper sat on the passenger seat. Martin opened it.

_Since I didn't manage to get you a Christmas gift this year._

_Thanks for hoovering._

_D_

Martin re-folded the note, tucked it into his pocket, and went inside the house. He took his sandwich and tea and started up the stairs. On the way to the attic, he plucked the mistletoe from its string and took it into his room, setting it against the window.

Before sitting to eat his sandwich, Martin re-affixed the 45 insert and pulled out his one and only Christmas record once more. He set the stylus down. 

_The Baron then offered a holiday toast_  
_And Snoopy, our hero, saluted his host_  
_And then with a roar they were both on their way_  
_Each knowing they'd meet on some other day._

_Christmas bells those Christmas bells_  
_Ringing through the land_  
_Bringing peace to all the world_  
_And good will to man._

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Mistel_ \- German for mistletoe - was an unmanned component of a German aircraft composite. 
> 
> The tune "Snoopy's Christmas" can be found [here](https://youtu.be/sh-J4GSPgAM).
> 
> Happy holidays to all.


End file.
